


Still Hot

by TheGreatGame



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fluff, Kisses, M/M, Samfro Week, Samfro Week Autumn 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 13:40:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20797517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreatGame/pseuds/TheGreatGame
Summary: In which Sam bakes a pie for Frodo and has to keep it safe as it cools.





	Still Hot

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a prompt from [Illegible_Scribble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illegible_Scribble/pseuds/Illegible_Scribble) for the [SeasonalSamfro_Autumn_2019 collection](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SeasonalSamfro_Autumn_2019).
> 
> Prompt: Baking

Sam carefully lifted the hot pie out of the oven and placed it on the windowsill. Even through his favorite potholders, it was obviously boiling inside. He could see the sugary juices bubbling through the gaps in the crust, a sure sign that his creation had finished baking.

Once the pie was safely on the windowsill, he turned back to start cleaning up the mess he had made.

He had only just grabbed a handful of apple peels when something rustled outside. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a tangled mass of hair and a drooling grin leering over his freshly baked dessert. 

“Mr. Pippin!”

Pippin did his best to lean casually against the windowsill once Sam turned to face him, as if he hadn’t been about to commit pastry theft.

“Hullo, Sam. I was just passing by when I caught a whiff of Shire-famous Gamgee apple crumb pie.”

“I’ve never heard anyone call it that, Mr. Pippin.”

“I call it that, and for good reason.” Pippin turned his gaze back to the still bubbling pie. “I haven’t had a piece of this since last fall’s apple harvest, and it’s been on the edge of my mind ever since this year's first day of autumn.”

“Well then, you’ll have to wait a few hours longer.” Sam grabbed a napkin and nudged the pie an inch away from Pippin. “This pie is specially for when Mr. Frodo comes back from Buckland.”

Pippin’s face fell in an instant. “What! But that could take hours!”

“Enough time for the pie to cool.”

“Apple crumb pie is best served warm and you know it, Samwise.”

“Better cold than boiling hot. Unless you want to burn your fingers?”

To those who were curious that Sam said “fingers” instead of “mouth”, it was because Pippin’s not-too-clean fingers were again raised and reaching for the pie. “Sometimes a little pain is needed for the best pleasure.”

Pippin jerked back as Sam’s wooden spoon whacked the windowsill.

“Missed me!”

“That was because I meant to. Next time, you might not be so lucky.”

Pippin stuck his tongue out and slunk away.

Sam humphed and went deeper into the kitchen. For a minute or so, he worked quickly and efficiently. He gathered the remaining apple peels and put them in a basket for the compost heap, he washed his spoons and apple peeler, and then he went back to the windowsill and brought his wooden spoon down mere millimeters from Pippin’s hand.

“I’m sure it’s cooled by now!” Pippin cried.

“The last hobbit I knew who said that couldn’t speak for a week for his burnt mouth.”

“And who was that idiot?”

“You, Mr. Pippin.”

“… oh yes,” Pippin murmured, the pipeweed-soaked memory returning through the regular haze of his mind. “But that was an extremely good food you invented. Cheese on tomato paste on-"

“Get away from my pie, Mr. Pippin. I won’t warn you again.”

Pippin scoffed and walked off again, but not before he called out, “If you’re going to make the whole row smell like heaven, you have to accept the consequences!”

Sam watched him leave, not content until Pippin had disappeared from sight. He turned back to his cleaning, confidently scrubbing the mixing bowls.

Ten minutes later, he sensed a presence by the windowsill again. That was it. He asked for it.

This time, his spoon struck true on a set of white, soft fingers.

“Mr. Frodo!” he cried. His spoon clattered to the floor and he watched Frodo cry out in pain. “Oh, I’m so sorry!”

Frodo looked up from his hurt hand and, gratefully, looked more amused than betrayed. “It’s quite all right, Sam. You didn’t hit too hard.”

Sam still cradled Frodo’s hand in his, examining those wonderful fingers and the horrible red mark his spoon had left.

“I’m so sorry. That pie is for you, and I-"

“You thought I was that one there?”

Frodo used his other hand to gesture to Pippin, who had once again crept out of the bushes. 

Frodo was about to insist that no harm had been done when Sam began pressing kisses to his fingers, muttering soft apologies between each one. Frodo’s eyes fluttered shut, relishing the feeling of Sam’s lips on him. Clouds could not be softer, a mother’s touch could not be more careful or kind.

Sam only stopped when Frodo put his other hand under Sam’s chin and guided him upwards. Those wonderful lips met his own, and Frodo found a treat sweeter than any pie.

They would have kept kissing like that, Frodo leaning over the windowsill and Sam making up for his transgression with passion, when a yelp startled them both.

Sam glared at Pippin, who was hopping up and down with his fingers in his mouth next to a less-than-perfect pie.

“… Is that nutmeg?” he finally asked. “You used a bit more than you usually do-"

This time, Sam’s spoon hit Pippin’s head.


End file.
